


Pregnancy cravings and chocolate cake

by JustDanny



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M, Marlowe knows what she wants, Open Relationships, Sex, Snooping around leads to TROUBLE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDanny/pseuds/JustDanny
Summary: The one where Marlowe is devious, Carlton is horny, and Juliet gets really, really curious. Also, Shawn doesn't know when to stop snooping around.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Marlowe Viccellio, Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara/Marlowe Viccellio, Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Any semblance of a plot is a mistake on the writer's part. Do not, I repeat, do NOT take it seriously.  
> Otherwise, enjoy.

“So, do you think Shawn likes Carlton?”

At first the question strikes her as odd, but then -honestly-, so much of what Marlowe says and does is usually odd. She married Lassiter, after all. So Juliet thinks nothing of it, though it comes after a long thoughtful silence and seems to be a much bigger issue for Marlowe than it is for her.

“Well, yes”, she says, reassuring smile in place. She's almost sure she's not lying: Shawn does like Carlton, even if his whole life goal seems to be giving the older man a heart attack.

Marlowe looks subdued for a second. It is funny how her face relaxes, her whole body seeming to melt, change into something liquid and peaceful before solidifying again and looking at Juliet with a glinting something in the eye.

“I mean”, she adds, carefully seeking her gaze, and Juliet blushes and for a second thinks she can see the future. It isn't pretty. “I mean, like as in... Do you think your boyfriend would fuck my husband, given the chance?”

Juliets milkshake turns into lava when it comes back up her nose. Trying not to choke, she only manages a word, shocked and indignant and maybe a little bit curious.

“What?”

Marlowe smiles softly, shakes her head and blushes slightly.

“Nothing. Just, let's forget about it.”

***

She of course tells Shawn. Even if it hadn't involved him, it is still the weirdest thing that has happened to her in a while. She sort of expects him to laugh with her, look at Marlowe with knowing eyes the next three or four times they see her and make sure to up the ante when it comes to flirting with Carlton whenever she's around.

Instead, Shawn just gapes, eyebrows restless as if they can’t decide if the best answer would be scrunching up or just leaving his face forever.

“What?”, he asks, much in the same tone that Jules used with Marlowe some hours ago. “Why did she even-? What is _that_ about?”

Juliet bites down her lip before shrugging. She herself isn’t exactly sure.

“I mean, she didn't exactly say, but my guess would be she's a bit... insecure.” 

“Insecure?”

Next word, she whispers almost unconsciously before going back to a normal voice level.

“Jealous. I mean, it isn’t that weird, you know?, with the pregnancy and all that. And I bet Carlton’s not exactly great at dealing with it. Being reassuring and such. Everybody needs it once in a while”, she adds pointedly.

Shawn, of course, chooses to focus on everything else instead.

“Jules, you're not making sense. Or maybe it's Mrs Lassie, or- did you just say jealous?”

She nods, eyebrow arched. 

“I take it you've decided to ignore the part about everybody needing…”

“Well, well, my dear Ju-li-et”, he interrupts, dragging out her name as if it were some kind of overly complicated spell he's pronouncing, “there is a, if I dare say, very, truly obvious error in your reasoning.”

If it could, Juliet's eyebrow would rise even more. Melt into her hairline, perhaps.

“And that is-?” 

Shawn looks more confident now that his view of the world is being accepted as correct once more. He's almost back to normal, or as normal as he's ever been at least.

“See, Jules, I think even Lassie's poor observation skills are capable of noticing my, you know, _not_ being a woman.” 

He gestures, waiting for her to finish the thought for him. It is Juliet's turn to look at him uncomprehendingly.

“Yeah”, she states. “Shawn, you're not a girl. I think I would have noticed if you were. So what?”

Shawn looks frustrated at that, at her. Even if Juliet would never admit it, it makes her feel great, knowing she can provoke such a reaction in the mighty fake psychic Shawn Spencer.

“Well, if I'm not a girl, there's not much Marlowe can be jealous of. Which means we need to figure out why she went nuts all of the sudd-”

“Why not, Shawn?”, she asks, honestly confused for the full two seconds it takes for her to get it. “Ah”, she says softly, and a very peculiar, sort of malevolent smirk twists her lips upwards. “You _don't know_.”

That does it. Shawn frowns and tries to read her face before giving up and trying to wing it. It is, she’d say, most satisfying.

“Why, of course I know. I've known since forever. Please, I'm the knowing king, Jules.”

A heartbeat before he goes on, all confidence and, shit, how did you ever fall for this act, Juliet?

“But, well, just in case _you_ don't know, just, you should probably tell me?”

Jules laughs, and she can tell his pride is slightly hurt, so she kisses it better, short and playful.

“Carlton wouldn't mind that you're not a girl, Shawn”, she tells him. “He'd probably mind that you're _you_ , though.”

That last part of the statement doesn't really register in Shawn’s brain. It is way too busy trying to process the first half of it.

“What-? How-? When-?”

A worried frown forms on Juliet's face.

“Come on, Shawn. You really _never_ noticed?”

***

“So, listen up, buddy.”

They're eating jerk chicken while supposedly working on one of Psych’s cases. Honestly, Shawn’s not too worried about it: it is just so obvious that the wife is planning to flee with her yoga instructor that he almost feels bad for charging the husband for his psychic insights.

Gus, however, has insisted they do this right. Hence the working, and the chicken. And, well, it is not Shawn’s fault that yesterday’s conversation with Jules is such a convenient topic to breach, is it?

“Gus? I said listen up. You're supposed to look at me”, he whines. His friend eats another forkful before nodding.

“I'm listening. But, unless you're talking about the case, I have nothing to say.”

Sighing, Shawn pretends to be resigned. It won't take Gus more than a minute to focus on him completely; even less once he tells him what he knows. He can be patient.

“So, Jules and I were talking, and you know, guess what? Marlowe, our lovely if slightly intense ex-vampire ex-con, is apparently a bit worried.”

“Worried?”

Against all odds, Gus seems to actually like Marlowe, if all his grumbling about her marrying a psychopath is to be believed. He looks at Shawn with some concern.

“Yes, my trusty friend. It seems she believes, for whatever reason, that dear ol' Lassiepants may have a _teeny weeny_ _crush_ on yours truly.”

He makes it as dramatic as possible, flailing hands and husky voice. Gus’s frown deepens, and he takes it as a sign that he so obviously should keep going.

“For, my loyal Gus, it seems that our sturdy, manly Head Detective-”

“I dont think it's exactly a _crush_ , Shawn.”

He hates being interrupted, but he makes do with a smirk.

 _“Au contract_ , _mon amigo_ ; our very Lassiekins does apparently…”

“I mean, and even so, it's not like you're going to put out. And”, Gus continues, leaving Shawn with his mouth open and a look that's not so much confused as it is _hurt_. “Anyway, Lassiter’s crazy and possibly murderous, but he's a good guy. He wouldn't do that to her, or put you in that position”, he rationalizes.

It takes a while for Shawn to start breathing again. When he does, though, he narrows his eyes in suspicion before speaking.

“How long?” He asks. Gus gives him a perfectly innocent look.

“How long, what?”

“Don't do that”, he protests. “How long have you known, Gus the Huge-Ass Traitor?” 

The other man's lips twist ever so slightly.

“About...?”

“About Lassiter, dammit!”

To his credit, Gus doesn't laugh, but he does look at him funny.

“Well, I'd say... Always? The mans’ not subtle, Shawn”. He crosses his arms, resigned to not eating again until Shawn’s curiosity has been sated. “Also, he's had his hands all over you for years. Honestly, I was scared there for a while. You've certainly done way worse, but he's got a bunch of guns.”

Shawn's expression is one of complete bewilderment.

“You mean, you do think he...? He has...? On me?”

With a sigh, Gus nods.

“Don't tell me you never noticed.”

Shawn shrugs.

“I didn't even know he _swung that way_ , Gus. How was I...?”

At that, Gus feels the absolute need to intervene.

“What do you mean, _you_ didn't know? That's like, I thought you of all people would notice something like that”. Truth be told, part of him feels almost vindicated: not even Shawn can know everything. Mostly, though, he's just really weirded out. “It has always been kind of obvious.”

“Well, I haven't. I don’t think he's ever done anything I could notice in front of me, Gus.” Shawn’s protest is weak.

“I guess you mean apart from manhandling you way more than necessary…” Gus’s words are a bit sardonic; Shawn’s response throws him a little off balance. His friend is blushing, slightly but in a very noticeable manner.

“Okay”, he adds, changing the topic for both their sakes, “what about when the FBI guys came? He was almost drooling, right?” Shawn seems about to interrupt, but wisely chooses to keep his mouth closed. “And, and the weird _thing_ with Conforth? And of course there's that obsession he has with Clint Eastwood; I guess that counts.”

“Hey! A man can have his celebrity crushes”, Shawn protests indignantly. “Doesn't mean a thing. For example, Val Kilmer…”

“Don't even try to sell _that's_ not weird, Shawn.”

It takes them a moment before they speak again, each lost in thought. 

“So.” 

It is Shawn who starts it again, unable to let anything go.

“So, do you think...?”

“Yeah”. Gus's tone is flat, a bit uncomfortable perhaps. “Yeah, he likes you. May even have a crush, as you said. But he's _married_ , dude. _And_ you're with Jules.” Sweet, lovely, very dexterous with a gun Jules. That part he doesn't say, but Shawn hears it anyway.

“Yes, I know. I'm not, I don't even, why would I be thinking of - _that_?”

Gus shrugs.

“Just, let it go, will you?”

***

Shawn’s never been great at introspection. Knowing others, exploring their secrets and weaknesses and useful quirks?, easy. Knowing himself? Boooring. 

The best way of figuring himself out has always been, and will continue to be in the foreseeable future, just getting out there, interacting with others and sort of winging it. Man is a social animal, and Shawn particularly so. 

What that means, in the end, is that Monday comes and he waltzes into the station sans Gus, smiles at Buzz and compliments Dobson -he's always had a sweet spot for the man for whatever reason- and proceeds to sit himself down on the edge of Lassiter’s desk while the detective pretends not to see him.

It lasts for about twenty seconds. Lassie sighs - a manly, slightly irate sigh - and puts his paperwork away before looking up to him.

“Spencer”, he greets coolly. “O’Hara’s not here. Go pester someone else.”

And there it is, in the way his gaze lingers for less than a second, hands twitching as if he wanted to touch him but didn't dare to. Or, maybe he's overcompensating now, reading too much into each of Lassie's gestures to kind of make up for what he's missed.

“I know”, he answers with a cheeky grin. Lassiter’s eyes pierce into his, and is it him, or somebody just turned on the heater?

He marches on anyway. He sort of needs this.

“I actually came to see my favourite newly-reinstated Head Detective”, he pipes. Lassie swallows, starts to growl. Damn. Now he thinks about it, it is an... interesting sound.

“Spencer, there are no cases-”

“I wanted you to come to lunch”, he manages in a breath. “With me.”

Lassiter’s brow creases. His gaze lingers on Shawn’s face for a while; he seems to see something there -better not to know what it is-, for he ends up nodding.

“Give me five minutes.”

It is indeed five minutes later that both of them stroll out of the station in the middle of a silence Shawn tries not to read too much into. Lassie seems to be deep in thought and keeps giving Shawn some sideway glances, but says nothing. They walk on for a bit, reach a park, sit on a bench. It is probably the longest lunch break Shawn has ever seen Lassiter take, and the man is not even eating. In fact, it looks like food is probably the farthest thing from his mind, and Shawn's stomach churns at the thought of what other things he can be thinking of, now that they're alone. 

“Okay”. The older man breaks the silence tentatively, opting at last to tackle the conversation head on, much to the psychic’s dismay. “Okay, Spencer, I'm not gonna shoot you. Tell me what you did.”

“Huh?”

For about a second, Shawn is caught off balance. Lassiter has crossed his arms and seems to be expecting some sort of confession on his part. Which is ridiculous: out of the two, the one who should have to beg forgiveness for having hidden such a massive secret is obviously the detective. It just isn't fair that he didn't even think of cluing Shawn in, really.

Lassiter clears his throat, goes for it again.

“I promise”, he repeats slowly, “that I will not shoot you, no matter what you did. Or, well”, he seems to think better of it. “If I do, I'll make it non-lethal, and mostly painless.”

“What are you talking about?”

Now Lassiter seems confused.

“I’m... Not exactly sure. I thought you were going to tell me. O’Hara’s been off all morning; she's been avoiding me, and I of course assumed that you... Did something.”

Shawn frowns, shakes his head. It's been a quiet weekend: Shawns split his time between Jules and Gus and avoiding Henry, just as he always does. He hasn't done anything; not this time. And, in any case -he reminds himself-, he's here to talk about _Lassie_. 

“Don't try to distract me”, he accuses, shaking his head. “I know what you're doing. You're stalling, trying to make me think of something else. Well, it won’t work. I _know_ , Lassafrass.” 

That seems to throw the other man off. He frowns, looking at him as if he's sprouting another head.

“You _know_?”, he asks. Shawn nods.

“When were you planning to tell me, man? I mean, it's not like I'm a _bigot_ , or - well, maybe I've made the occasional joke, but so have you! Only mine are actually funny, you know. So, the point is, you should've told me because that's what friends-”

“Spencer, what are you talking about?”

Eyes wide, confused, almost worried. It's all it takes for Shawn to remember that all of this is only news for him -bitterly, he thinks probably even McNab knows already. So, he should probably give Lassie a bit more context.

“Your deep dark desire to eat bananas as well as pineapples, dude”, he clarifies. Lassie just stares. Some detective.

Throwing up his arms, Shawn stands and gets right in front of him, his face inches from the other man’s, before trying again.

“You liking boobs and ass? Fish and meat? Dogs and ca-”

“Enough”. Lassiter’s blushing like, madly, but other than that doesn't seem to be more than mildly irritated. “That's none of your business, Spencer”, he snaps; he won't meet Shawn's eye, which is honestly more telling than he probably thinks. “It's not- My private life is just that, private. And, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

That last part sounds more like a plea. As if Lassiter was asking -not imposing, not ordering- a favor.

“So, is it a secret? As in, you haven't told anyone?”

A small nod, a shrug.

“Not, you know. At work. No need to, either.”

Which shouldn’t fix anything. Shawn should still be mad at himself, because this just means that Jules and Gus figured it out on their own, while he hasn't. But knowing he hasn't been left out is, strangely enough, sort of comforting. Lassie wasn't hiding it from _him_. That - that probably means something.

Not that it's going to change anything in the grand scheme of things.

“Well, you still should've told me”, he whines, and almost unconsciously brings out his hand to pat Lassiter on the back. He slides his fingers up until he reaches the detectives tie; clearing his throat, the older man stands up and steps away. He's still flushing.

“You're the psychic”, he mumbles, way softer than he was probably aiming for. 

***

“I think you were probably onto something.”

It has taken Juliet some time to contact Marlowe again. Mostly, she tells herself, because she has been really busy; for whatever reason, paperwork has multiplied this week, and it's taking her ages to complete tasks so simple they wouldn't normally keep her for more than a couple of hours.

So, well, maybe she's been distracted. Which brings her to the second reason she has been dreading this meeting. Not that she would admit it, not even to herself; though she suspects Marlowe already knows, because of course Carlton cannot keep anything from his _honeybear_ , and it's not like Shawn’s kept to himself. 

“Sorry?”

The older woman is distracted today. They are meeting at a lovely little café close to the beach, and a strange combination of fluffy pancakes and something that looks like taco meat is monopolizing most of her attention. Part of Juliet thinks she should grab the chance, forget about that last weird conversation and go on and on about the baby or the house or whatever instead.

She's never been great at quitting when she's ahead.

“Ehrm, about the other day”, she starts again, tentatively. Marlowe stops eating for a second to look at her, intense, almost smiling. “About, you know. Shawn. Carlton. Not that you have anything to worry about!”, she adds quickly, and Marlowe’s lips curve, her expression as sweet as always even though there's something _off_ about it.

“Oh, I'm not worried.”

Juliet shudders. Marlowe’s smile grows bigger.

“Well, I am”, she says at last. “Not worried, not _per se_ , but- Look, Shawn has, is, I don't know. I feel like he's obsessing over it, and-”

“It'll pass. He loves you, Juliet. But, sometimes-”

“You're telling me you're not even slightly... concerned?” Jealous, is the word she knows she needs, but she's pretty sure she's not ready to use it in this particular situation. 

“Of course not! Carlton’s having a baby with _me_ ”, she points at herself; “and it's not like he's gonna start sleeping around without telling me.”

It takes Juliet a moment to process that last part.

“Without _telling you_?”

And oh, boy, things are starting to look... Different. Eyes widening, she trains them on Marlowe’s.

“Of course you're not worried”, she mutters softly. “It was- You _want_ him to want _him_ , don't you?”

To her credit, Marlowe does blush, if only a bit. Her smile doesn't falter, though, and she takes the chance to place a bit of cold pancake in her mouth and a large gulp of decaf.

“It's not... Well, I've been giving it some thought. Wouldn't they be adorable?”

Juliet's brain is still malfunctioning, but it manages to produce something at that. The picture, all in all, is not half-bad. Getting flustered, angry and disconcerted at the same time has to be some kind of record for her range of emotions, in any case.

“Adorable? That’s, that’s not-”

“Hot?”, Marlowe supplies helpfully, and Juliet feels she's about to scream.

“That’s messed up!”, she hisses instead. The other woman observes her carefully, as if trying to assess her, and then shrugs.

“It was just an idea”, she excuses herself. “And we would have had to talk it out with them anyway, and - well, it's fine. It was silly of me, I guess.”

Juliet honestly, truly wants to agree. To tell Marlowe that, really, those things are best left hidden in one's own head, safely prevented from ever making their way in a conversation or interacting with the real world in any way. But the picture, the mere thought of, of-

Marlowe, she's sure, is smirking now, and suddenly Juliet can imagine how she managed to survive in prison. Gosh, that woman is evil. _And_ horny.

“I knew you'd be on board. So, shall we discuss details?”


	2. Chapter 2

He finds them _plotting_. Shawn’s not particularly suspicious by nature, but he’s pretty good at reading people. Well, at least that’s what he’s spent his whole life thinking, up until _everybody_ , including his very best friend in the world, decided that keeping secrets from him was apparently the way to go. 

Still, he _knows_ something’s up. He can see it on Juliet’s face: she’s not exactly subtle. All that’s left is for him to find out what’s going on. 

Shawn loves a challenge.

He goes around the apartment basically stomping, making sure that both Juliet and Marlowe, who’s apparently decided to move in with them these last few days, hear him and get sufficiently annoyed by his presence. It only takes a few minutes for his traitor of a girlfriend to yell something about him needing to go get some groceries or some such nonsense. 

So far, the plan is working.

He goes into the living room, fumbling about and pretending to search for his keys. Waving at Marlowe and noisily kissing Jules goodbye, he puts on his biggest smile and gets out, closing the apartment door with as much force as he can before sneaking back in. This time, he does so stealthily, flattening himself up against the wall and everything. He even kicks off his shoes so that his bare feet can’t be heard from where the two women are sitting. And, being as he is in full-on spy mode, he listens.

“Do you think he suspects something?” Marlowe’s voice is somewhat muffled by the great quantity of cake she’s stuffed into her mouth. She has a frown on, seems rather worried. From his spot peeking out of the door, Shawn can see her wipe off some chocolate from her lips before biting off a new, larger chunk of the very appealing and spongy treat.

“Nah. Shawn doesn’t suspect a thing.” There’s something strange in the way Juliet speaks; a bit too loud perhaps. Still, Shawn pays more attention to the words than to the body language: lately, Jules has been weird around both Marlowe and Lassie. Around him, too, now that he thinks about it.

“I really hope so. Carlton would die of embarrassment, you know. If word got out.”

Now, that sparks his interest. Anything that may embarrass Lassie, Shawn sort of needs to know. Professionally. Just in case he needs to blackmail the older man some day, which is something that’s due to happen sooner or later.

“The- _It_ is safe, don’t worry.” Again, that _something_ in Juliet’s tone, in the way she holds herself, stiff, as if she was acting in her school’s play and had absolutely no idea of what her role was.

“Good. Where did you put it?”

Jules clears her throat, shrugs and lowers her voice. Silly: there’s nobody else in there. Well, there’s Shawn, of course, but he’s so far undetected, a shadow stealthily moving around and learning both women’s deepest secrets. So far, they’ve consisted of nothing but cake-loving and this new, exciting easter egg hunt he’s about to embark upon. 

“Study. You know that big pile of history books Carlton insisted on giving me? Nobody ever reads them.”

“I can imagine.” Marlowe sounds sympathetic. “They’re not the best thing to read. Unless you’ve got insomnia.”

Not even waiting to hear more, Shawn sneaks back to the main door. Opening and closing it again, he makes sure to complain loud enough so that both women can hear him before he walks back to the living room. 

It must have worked, because Jules is blushing when he comes in and Marlowe eyes him with a smile that _can’t_ not be forced. 

“Hey, you were fast.” There’s a sort of question intonation in his girlfriend’s voice. Shawn shrugs.

“Forgot my wallet. Sorry; I’ll leave you to it in a second.”

With a barely hidden smile, he grabs a couple of twenties from Jules’ handbag. Waving back at the women, he gets out of the house; this time, for real.

***

It’s working. Somehow, against all odds and universal rules and common sense, whatever it is they are doing seems to be working. 

There’s a weird feeling in Juliet’s stomach when she thinks about it. The last remains of all her very reasonable qualms about this whole thing swim around, making her queasy and giggly and very much not herself. 

Still, it’ll be worth it. Maybe. Marlowe says so, at least; and though Juliet suspects that Shawn’s reactions to any of this will be wildly different from Carlton’s, she’s still half convinced already that it’ll all be for the best. 

Her boyfriend comes back almost an hour later; Marlowe has already left, saying something about her husband having to leave the shooting range _at some point_ , kissing Juliet very softly on the cheek in a way that’s made her think of just about every stupid crush she’s ever had on a woman-shaped celebrity, and winking at her before climbing into the car. 

Okay. So, maybe this whole thing _is_ a bad idea. A monumentally terrible one, at that. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re already in too deep, Juliet. There’s no turning back: Shawn’s heard their whole conversation, and Marlowe and she have bought _it_ after a long afternoon of carefully weighing pros and cons, Juliet’s overactive imagination sending her pictures of Carlton she’d rather not tell anyone about. She has to admit, she’ll be bummed if this whole thing doesn’t pan out in the end.

Doesn’t make this whole ‘lying to Shawn and getting away with it’ any easier.

Her boyfriend-slash-victim prances into the room nonchalantly, expertly hiding the fact that he’s been spying on her and that he’s probably going to take the very first opportunity that comes his way to keep snooping around. Oh, boy, is he in for a surprise.

“So, how was your day?,” he asks, all innocent-like. 

She takes some time to answer. This is what she was afraid of when they started this. These moments alone with Shawn, everything already set in motion and nothing to do but _wait,_ pretend nothing’s going on while her very perceptive boyfriend does his best to figure out what exactly she’s been up to. Still, she manages to smile, and in her humble opinion it doesn’t come out as fake as it actually feels. 

“Good. Marlowe was here for a while after you left; we were talking about the baby, you know.” 

She really hopes that he won’t pry: she’s worked out her cover story, but it’s always been hard for her to lie to Shawn. Mostly because he usually figures it out almost immediately. Luckily, he’s so busy trying not to get busted for eavesdropping that he doesn’t bother to call her out on it. 

“They still don’t have the room ready; I sort of offered to help out on Saturday.”

“Oh.” Shawn frowns, eyes getting away from the pasta he’s eating. He looks at her, not entirely happy, and Juliet’s heart sinks. “I thought we had something special planned. You know. As in, you, me, maybe Gus. There’s this new Mexican place we haven’t tried yet.”

She shrugs, offers a small, apologetic smile. 

“If you don’t want to come- I mean, I can tell Carlton. We’ll just-”

“No, no; it’s fine.” He waves her off, surrendering faster than she’s ever seen him do, particularly when there’s food involved. “But Lassie better fess up for some tacos or something. I need my weekly intake of Mexican food.”

Breathing out in relief, Juliet allows herself to count this as a victory. Things are running smoothly, she thinks; now, she just needs to let Shawn roam free for a while. Two days for him to sneak around the house and find the- _it_. She still can’t picture it without blushing. Two days for Marlowe to do her part, and then this whole thing will be over, and it will either end in fireworks or just in flames. 

She can’t wait to see which of the two she gets. 

***

“Gus! GUS!”

Getting a call at two in the morning isn’t all that unusual when one’s been friends with Shawn Spencer for this long. Neither is being visited by a rambling psychic at that time, nor feeling just this tiny bit closer to becoming a shrieking, machete-wielding killer. So, swallowing his murderous instincts and splashing some cold water on his face, Burton Guster sadly waves his beauty sleep goodbye and drags his feet to the door.

“What do you want, Shawn? It’s two a.m.”

His friend’s eyes are red-rimmed, lack of sleep apparent in the jerkiness of his movements. Maybe a RedBull overdose. Again.

“Gus, I really really really need to talk to you. Now. As in, this very moment. This- This _Thing_ \- You won’t believe what happened!”

Gus has a feeling that he will, no matter what. He’s not proud of that.

“Okay, sit down. And, and make it quick.” Ha. As if that were possible. “I have work in the morning.”

“Gus, I don’t think you’re grasping the _enormity_ of this thing. Or, well, the enormity of the- _Thing_ , either.” Shawn actually blushes when he says that. Weird. It should probably be a sign for Gus to throw him out and stop what is surely going to be a traumatizing conversation from occurring. But he’s a good friend, the best friend, and so he just lets out a long-suffering sigh and gestures for Shawn to continue.

Plopping down on his favourite armchair, his friend does exactly that. 

“Okay. Okay, I think I saw- You know, it was there. Like, _there_. Jules has it. Why does Jules have it? Man, she’s- Something weird is going on, I’m telling you. She’s-”

“Alright, Shawn, start from the beginning. Please.” Gus can already feel his headache making an appearance. Along with Little Shawn - which has been fought off with an almost infinite amount of visits to the very best massage parlours in Santa Barbara to no avail -, his headaches are his body’s way of screaming at him to get away from Shawn Spencer.

Breathing deeply, his friend gets his phone out of his pocket. He fumbles around with it for about a minute, producing in the end what seems to be a picture of a quite large, quite, ehm, colorful-

“Is that a-?”

“Buttplug. Yes it is. And it’s in _my house_ \- well, Juliet’s house, and-”

Wrinkling his nose, Gus raises a hand in a clearly defensive move. He even pushes his chair back, as much as he can without scratching the wooden floor. 

“Stop it. Right there, Shawn. I _really_ don’t want to know what you and Jules-”

“But it’s not mine!,” comes his friend’s whine. And oh boy is he going to regret this.

“What do you mean?,” he hears himself ask. He already knows this is a mistake. A big one, to that. “Whose is it?”

Each and every one of his fears comes true when he sees Shawn lick his lips, avert his gaze for a second, get some air in. It takes the psychic two takes to actually say the name.

“I think it’s Lassiter’s.”

He _so_ didn’t want to hear that. 

“Alright, Shawn.” It’s about time to throw his friend out, send him back home to Juliet and whatever it is that’s going on in there. None of his business, really; Shawn should learn to stop oversharing before he decides to move to the other side of the country just so he doesn’t have to listen to him.

“Guuuuuuuus! I’ve been _seeing it_ . You know, like, I can’t stop picturing Lassie with, with that _Thing_ , and it’s-!” He shudders rather unconvincingly. With a sigh, and knowing this is probably the opposite of what he should be doing, Gus lets himself be wrapped into the conversation. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Shawn. I mean, was it lying around? Why is it even-?” His friend shrugs guiltily. Gus frowns. “You were looking for it, weren’t you?”

“Not, like, not for ‘it’, exactly,” Shawn admits. “But I may have overheard Marlowe telling Jules something- and now that I think about it, they did mention Lassie, but it could be- Gus, it could be hers!” The horrified expression on the psychic’s face is much more convincing now. “Can you imagine that? Like, Lassie and Mrs Lassie, doing the horizontal dance, and she decides to spice things up and, just like-”

Gus shakes his head, internally pleading his friend to stop.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to _not_ imagine it, Shawn. Thank you very much for that. For- for _both_ pictures, actually. Just great.”

Looking far less regretful than he should, the psychic offers him a conciliatory half-smile. _And_ he opens his mouth again.

Great. This is going to be a long night.

***

Shawn can talk to Gus about almost everything. True: most of the time, his friend doesn’t exactly encourage nor welcome his input, but he’s a good listener and he honestly can’t stop the psychic once he’s started rambling. Which makes him the perfect victim when it comes to things like this. 

“So, I was just minding my own business, getting back home after a walk around the beach, and I found them there, _plotting_.”

He tells his best friend the story right as he’s lived it. The moment he came home to find Marlowe there _again_ ; his totally awesome spy scene; Jules’ weirdness, and her highly suspicious offer to help out at the Lassiters’. 

“I mean, since when did she become best friends with Marlowe?”

“Well, Shawn, that’s what adult people do: they try to be nice to each other, especially when it comes to their friends’ wives.” He says so pointedly; Shawn makes sure to ignore any possible implication. Still, he frowns.

“Marlowe did live with Jules for a while.”

“Yes.”

“And I guess Jules and Lassie _are_ sort of friends.”

For some reason, Gus looks at him as if he’s just sprouted a new head.

“You’re kidding. Of course they are. That’s like, the weirdest, most unhealthy friendship in the whole world, barring ours, but it’s very obviously there, Shawn.”

The psychic furrows his brow in thought.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m not sure I like it, though. Not if it involves having his- _Things_ at home. At Juliet’s, I mean.”

At that, Gus can’t help but agree with him. Not even _he_ would keep Shawn’s ‘things’, honestly.

“Don’t you ever try that with me,” he warns the psychic. His friend’s expression grows downright evil.

“It’s a sign of true friendship, Gus. That’s-”

“Then be ready to have _all_ of the Lassiters’ _Things_ at home. At Juliet’s,” he counters. Shawn’s face scrunches up.

“Ouch. Reminding me of that is a low blow.”

Still, Shawn keeps not being _freaked out_ enough, in Gus’ opinion. In fact, he seems to be thinking this whole thing over much more carefully than he should. For some reason, Gus thinks he can see the future: it includes a second, very awkward conversation and a longing for bleach so he can wash his brain.

“So, why do you think he’d have it? I mean, it’s not-”

Very much not wanting this to go on, but bracing himself for the inevitable, Gus answers.

“You know, people tend to, ehrm, like different things,” he says. “In bed. Not judging, you know, but some of those things-”

“You mean Lassie likes to have things shoved up his-?”

“Don’t say it!” 

In a panic, he even goes as far as to cover Shawn’s mouth with his hand. His friend actually licks his palm to get rid of it.

“What I mean, I never pictured him like- that, you know.”

“Neither did I. And, I must say, I was pretty happy living like that,” Gus mutters with some resentment.

“It’s fascinating. He has _layers_ , Gus. Just like onions.”

“Yeah. Pretty layered, Lassiter. Can we please not ever mention this conversation again? Or, you know, Lassiter. At all.”

“We work with him,” is Shawn’s way too chipper answer. Gus groans. 

***

Gus is right. More or less. He should probably stop thinking about this whole matter, and never, ever mention the Thing to anyone. Not even Jules, who is still oblivious as to his little sneak-peek.

The problem, and it’s a huge one, is that he doesn’t seem to be able to.

He wakes up Saturday morning having slept about four hours at most. His body protests in every language it knows, joints cracking and muscles aching and head throbbing so much he takes a couple of aspirins even before he has breakfast. There are remnants of the dream he’s had still hanging in his mind, all-too clear pictures of things he’d rather not talk about because he’s in a happy, healthy, sex-filled relationship with one Juliet O’Hara.

So, bearing in mind his very firm purpose of _not_ dwelling on his sudden, very inappropriate thoughts of his girlfriend’s friend, maybe spending the day at the Lassiters’ is not exactly the best idea.

The morning isn’t looking great, he decides. For one, Jules is stupidly nervous. She’s changed at least three times, choosing clothes that have definitely not been designed to help paint a baby’s room. Shawn’s about to point this out to her when the little remains he still has of common sense stop him. Let her wear whatever she thinks is fitting. Lassie will probably bark something at her, in any case, in a tone that would earn Shawn a week sleeping on the couch but that will just get the other man a scowl. Life’s really unfair sometimes.

Not only does Juliet take forever getting ready, but she also spends a worrying amount of time texting Marlowe. If Shawn hadn’t stealthily peeked over her shoulder, he’d start to think that she’s hiding something. As it is, both women are apparently talking about cake. Which may still salvage this whole day, if it’s good enough. Not that Shawn trusts Marlowe’s cooking that much, but he’ll take what he can get.

“Ready?”

Jules nods before breathing in deeply and getting into the car. She fumbles with the keys for almost a minute, hands slightly shaky and a smile that’s half forced and half manic; when they finally start moving, it feels a lot like going to the slaughterhouse. Shawn just _knows_ that this is going to be a long day.

Not that he minds spending time with the Lassiters, really. Not in normal circumstances, at least. He sort of likes the idea; it would be even better if he weren’t so eager to try out the new Mexican place, to be honest. But it’ll be fine either way, he tells himself. He can bother Lassie much better when they’re not at the station and their livelihoods aren’t at risk. And Marlowe’s sweet. Nice. Probably a vampire, but still: when she’s not hanging out at Jules’ place _again_ , she’s a fun person to be around, possibly so that the universe can balance Lassie out. There’s only so much joy-killing the world can stand to have in one place, after all.

All in all, and if he manages to avoid picturing the _Thing_ for a few hours, he may yet survive the day.


	3. Chapter 3

_This is happening_.

Juliet’s mind has only ever focused this hard, she decides, on her detective exam - and even then it was short-lived and less dreadful.

Alright, so maybe she’s overreacting a bit. All in all, as Marlowe’s told her in their secret, cake-themed code, the worst that can happen is that, well, that _nothing_ happens. If it comes to that, they’ll say it was just a practical joke, and Shawn will play along because he’ll have so much to tease Carlton with. She doesn’t even have to worry about her partner: Marlowe will deal with that. She’s an evil mastermind: she’ll have it under control in minutes.

She’s still shaking when she gets in the car, a sleep-deprived Shawn hopping in beside her. Seeing her boyfriend like that, Juliet can’t help but wonder if they’ve taken this too far. She doesn’t exactly know what has been keeping him up, though she suspects it has a lot to do with the _toy_ they’ve bought. It’d be good to know if he’s been having the same shameful thoughts she’s allowed herself to have on occasion. Maybe they should both get some therapy, or have sex more often.

They get to the apartment quickly enough, a peaceful trip that’s lacking Shawn’s smartass comments and her bubbly chatter. They’re both tense, uncomfortable but unwilling to admit it. 

By the time Marlowe opens the door, Jules is pretty sure her boyfriend has to suspect something. They couldn’t be more obvious: the way too warm hug they both receive, the fussing over while they meekly follow the pregnant woman inside, are huge warning signs. As perceptive as Shawn usually is, he should already be connecting the dots in his head. 

If he is, though, he doesn’t show it.

“I’m so happy you could make it! Carlton’s in our bedroom getting things ready.” Marlowe has the gall to actually _smirk_ when she says that; it apparently flies over Shawn’s head, although Juliet is all too aware of the way the older woman’s eyes glint. 

“That’s-”

“You should go check on him, Shawn.” Marlowe doesn’t let Juliet speak; probably a good idea. She’s not sure she’d be able to keep her face blank, her voice even, now that things have been set in motion. 

This is going way too fast, she thinks. With a nod, Shawn starts to move towards the main room; Marlowe’s hand on her wrist stops Juliet from following him, mostly out of habit.

“We’ll go get coffee and cake, alright? Take your time!”

The psychic nods absently, waves at them to go on, take care of things while he walks further away into the apartment. Jules bites her lip, keeping herself from shouting out to him and ruining everything.

“I thought we weren’t going to be here,” she tells Marlowe. The pregnant woman’s lips curve upwards, her eyes searching Juliet’s; she winks at her.

“We won’t. Let’s just say I left everything pretty much tied up for him.”

With that, she grabs Juliet’s shoulder and walks them both to the front door. The younger woman follows dumbly, still trying to recover from the sudden tsunami of very, very inappropriate pictures swarming her mind. By the time she can speak again, they’re outside.

“But, but-” Everything they’ve done up until this point seems to come to her at the same time. The, the _toy_ , the note, the carefully worded texts, the whole conspiracy and-

“C’mon, Juliet. I’m pretty sure we’ve got some time for ourselves. Let the boys have fun, shall we?”

***

Shawn doesn’t hear the door closing until he’s left the entrance way behind; by then, he’s already halfway to the room, so he just shrugs it off. Up until he enters the master bedroom, of course, only to find a half-naked man definitely _not ready_ to work.

Oh.

Suddenly, the front door closing seems like an ominous warning. He’d figure out the rest if he could think about something that’s not what he’s got right in front of him. It’s hard, though: it’s not everyday he finds himself facing a shirtless, tied up Lassie, though his bewildered expression is, sadly, more common in his day to day life. Still, it’s most assuredly a sight to behold. It _does_ do some funny things to Shawn’s very own intimate parts, which is something he’d rather never mention, _ever_.

In what has to be the most casual expression anyone who’s ever been caught cuffed to his own bed has ever pulled, Lassiter manages to get one of his trademark scowls to cover up his initial surprise.

“Oh, great. What are you even doing here?”

For a moment, Shawn’s voice refuses to work. His mouth seems to be disconnected from his brain; which is admittedly a good thing, bearing in mind the unsettling amount of NSFW pictures that are running through it right now. Lassie’s lack of screaming bloody murder isn’t exactly helping matters. In a normal, healthy world, the older man should already be yelling at him, threatening to kill - or at least maim - him. Instead, he’s _almost calm_ ; or, at least, calm enough to talk like a normal person. Which is more than Shawn can say about himself.

He croaks.

“Spencer, I don’t think this is the time to play charades,” the detective observes dryly. With a groan and a rattling of the cuffs, he forces himself upright. The resulting position looks far from comfortable, but it does succeed in covering him up a bit more. Which shouldn’t be as disappointing as it is, really. “I- actually, I think I may need some help over here. Would you-?” He nods in his general direction, and Shawn’s insides twist. Mouth dry, he nods, but doesn’t move an inch.

This. This is not _right_. For as much as his body - and maybe part of his mind, though he’ll never admit it out loud - may want it, it is just wrong, twisted in so many ways that he can’t even start to count them.

“Well? Spencer, are you going to help?” Guiltily, he snaps back to the present situation. For a second he’s about to ask Lassie what exactly it is he wants help with. But the older man is, or should be, embarrassed enough as it is. No need to make it harder on both of them.

Heh. _Harder_.

“Where do you keep them?” The keys, he means, though his gaze is sort of travelling down on its own accord, fixing itself for a few seconds on the already unbuttoned pants, the older man’s exposed chest. 

His mind, through no will of his, goes back to the _Thing_ , as he’s now officially named the buttplug Juliet somehow thought of hiding for the-

“Spencer!”

Right. Back to the present.

“Huh, sorry. Trailed off for a bit. Where did you say-?”

“Try the jewelry box. The one on the night table. They should be there.”

Shawn does get to the table without looking back at Lassie even once. Which should be some sort of record. It’s taking way more willpower than he ever thought he had not to forget about the keys and just, well, enjoy the view. He can even cover it up with some jokes, pretend that he’s gonna be laughing at this and not jerking off to it. 

“I don’t have all day. Spencer, I’m supposed to get out of here before-”

With a wave of his hand and a hiss, Shawn gets him to shut up. Interesting, he thinks: he’d never have managed such a feat in real life. Though it probably has more to do with the fact that Lassie’s freedom is going to literally be in his hands in the next few seconds, of course.

Or not. Frowning, he goes through the box once again. There are a couple of earrings, a necklace he thinks he’s seen Marlowe wear on occasion, and a piece of paper he picks up without even thinking about it. No sign of keys.

“Any other ideas, Lassie? There’s nothing here.”

The detective lets out a growl, tugs at the handcuffs, more out of rage than any real hope of loosening them. Then, he sighs. 

“Alright. Spencer, you can try-”

But by that time Shawn has already unfolded the piece of paper from the box, and his frown is creasing at such a rate that it’ll probably cave his whole face in in about a minute.

“What. The. Hell.”

Without pausing to think, he jumps to the bed, shoves the note in the face of a retreating Lassiter. When the older man is about to protest - it’s probably hard to read when the text is almost jabbing your eyeball -, he grabs him by the very naked shoulder.

“Did you know about _this_? Huh? Lassie, if you knew about-”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Wiggling out of his grasp, pants getting dangerously low in the attempt, Carlton manages to shoot him one of his patented glares. It doesn’t succeed in calming Shawn down, but it does remind him that, after whatever _this_ is is over, the man will have access to a gun and to a bunch of police more than willing to cover his back.

“This.” Again, though a bit more calmly, he spreads the note in front of Lassiter’s eyes. The older man’s eyebrows do a little dance as he tries to first read and then comprehend what’s written in there.

Which is, in a word, an _invitation_. In many, it says something like:

_Will be back in an hour. Be nice to each other, and enjoy._

And then, in a rounder, larger handwriting that Shawn unwillingly recognizes as Juliet’s: _Left you-know-what under the bed. Have fun!_

Shawn’s pretty sure he can figure out the exact second the contents of the note make their way to Lassie’s brain. Eyes widening, mouth dropping halfway open, his whole body stiffens and he lets out a mostly soundless puff of air. And then, instead of the weirdness the psychic sort of expected, there’s - nothing.

Well. At first.

“Did you-?” The question chokes him this second time around. Lassiter shakes his head, though he doesn’t really need to answer. It _is_ pretty obvious this, this thing is as new for the detective as it is for him. 

It is equally obvious, by the way Lassie’s eyes wander around until they meet his face, that it isn’t entirely unwelcome. That, even if he’s had nothing to do with any of this - and, oh, boy, Jules is going to have a lot to explain -, he’s at least half familiar with the scenario. As in, he’s _thought_ about this.

It should probably make him run away. That’s what common sense would ask for. Run as far as you can and dump your manipulative, _very kinky_ girlfriend immediately. Because this isn’t _right_ . This isn’t _normal_. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would send Henry Spencer in a frenzy, and it’s probably this last thought that makes Shawn stay.

(That’s the version he’s sticking to, at least.)

“So.” He stops there, having nothing else to say. Lassie shrugs as well as he can with his arms still cuffed to the bedposts. 

“Guess I’ll have the keys in an hour,” he muses. He’s taking this whole thing _so_ freaking calmly, remaining mostly composed while Shawn’s suddenly made of Jell-o and has a five-year-old’s capacity of reaction; it’s unfair. And the first thought that occurs to the psychic is that he should kiss him just to get him off balance. See how smug he can be when he’s feeling as lost and confused and turned on as he is.

So he does just that.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Lassie kisses back. And, honestly, Shawn’s pretty sure Jules could take some pointers there. 

The kiss is longer and hungrier than the younger man expected, the lack of mobility doing nothing to impede Carlton’s absolute ownership of his mouth. There’s surprisingly little aggression in it; the older man’s needy, eager to explore and taste, and Shawn should find it completely in character, given the way he’s around Marlowe. Lassie lets out a moan echoed by the psychic’s own; by the time they separate, gasping for air and each other, there’s little doubt of the course of action they’ve both embarked on. Still, Shawn asks, because his sanity depends on him not taking this as _the natural thing to do_.

“So. What should we, I mean, what should we do?”

Stupid question, of course. Lassiter arches an eyebrow and sort of points with his head.

“Well, they went through a lot of trouble,” he says with a half-smirk. That’s new, one more expression Shawn gets to file in his extensive mental folder on Carlton Lassiter. It looks good, makes him look younger and way filthier than his usual persona. Shawn can feel himself blush at the thought, even though it’s probably too late to be having that reaction.

“I guess,” he agrees. Instinctively, and in a move that’s absolutely not premeditated, he sits on the bed, right between Lassie’s legs, and lets a hand rest on the older man’s thigh. The detective’s breath quickens, eyes filling with lust and the promise of dirty, dirty retribution.

“We probably shouldn’t let them down. I mean, Marlowe tends to get- invested. I don’t think it’d be good for the baby to reject her.” 

He has no right to sound as composed as he does. Though his voice is getting huskier, turning almost into a growl, he’s still _thinking clearly_. Unforgivable. That’s not something Lassie should be doing; even less so in this scenario. So Shawn’s hands take it upon themselves to fix it, travelling down to the hem of his pants and tugging slightly. Instead of moving and making his job easier, though, the detective lets out a huff of air and looks pointedly at Shawn.

“What?”

“That’d be unfair, Spencer,” the older man says, very obviously referring to the psychic’s own state of non-nakedness. “You’re supposed to-”

Shawn shuts him up with a well-planted kiss, shorter and more aggressive this time. Pushing the older man back with his right hand, he pulls at the pants with his left; this time, Lassiter lets him undress him, raising his hips and letting out something that sounds suspiciously whiny.

“Life’s not fair, Lassiekins. It’s about time someone taught you that.” 

Huh. 

If Shawn had time to think, which he doesn’t, he’d start to maybe question how is it that this is coming so naturally to him. To both of them, really. Carlton’s way more compliant than he’d ever have thought: it’s only logical, then, that he should be the one to take control. It should still be freaking him out, of course, and he’d probably think it over tomorrow, once he’s back home instead of here, in Lassie’s bed, holding him down against the mattress and carefully getting his underwear off while admiring the fact that the older man is already hard for him, and he hasn’t even had to _touch him_. 

“Is that why you’re here? Giving out free life lessons, Spencer?”

There it is again, that knowing half-smirk. For once in his life, Shawn supposes, he can let the other man feel good with himself. Throwing away the offending pair of briefs Lassie’s been wearing up until now, and very pointedly avoiding any sort of contact with the older man’s cock, he lowers himself down and plants a kiss on the detective’s neck.

“I guess so. I can also teach you many more things, if you behave.”


	4. Chapter 4

They drive slowly, taking their time, Marlowe chatting away about something she just bought for the baby while Juliet pretends to listen. She can’t exactly help it that her mind’s somewhere else: specifically, on his boyfriend and his partner, maybe doing things she won’t admit she really wants to be thinking about.

Pulling over at her building’s door, she parks the car and helps Marlowe out. The older woman has a smirk on her lips, winks at her once they’re close.

“It’ll be fine, Juliet. I mean, if it weren’t, they would’ve called already to dump us, don’t you think?”

She’s right. Probably. She’s convincing, at least - and that’s mainly the problem, if she stops to think about it. Marlowe’s just too damn convincing, and also soft and nice and _evil_. Very, very evil.

They get inside, Juliet leaving her keys on the coffee table while they both get on the couch. The younger woman is about to suggest they watch something on TV when she feels a hand on her knee, gentle, almost tentative. She looks up to find Marlowe’s eyes, Marlowe’s quiet, reliable smile. 

Oh, well. 

Her stomach does a backflip somehow, and she licks her lips and lets that little voice that keeps screaming at her to _stop it, whatever it is you’re doing_ get drowned by the loud thump of her own heartbeat. Marlowe’s hand moves, rising from her legs up to her face, caressing her cheek in an intimate gesture. Juliet finds herself leaning towards her without realizing.

“Do you-?” She gulps, and Marlowe’s smile loses part of her warmth, grows almost predatory. Juliet’s insides twist in a funny way; she bites her lower lip, and the older woman licks her own in what’s almost a mirror movement. “I don’t think- I don’t think Carlton’s going to be okay with this,” she says, and to her own surprise she finds herself dreading Marlowe’s answer. Her partner _is_ a jealous man, she thinks; although the idea of giving up on _this_ before she’s even had the chance to try it only to save his pride is, at this time, infuriating.

“He better be,” her companion says instead. “I mean: he _owes_ me.”

Without so much as a warning, Marlowe leans forward until their lips meet. Timidly at first, she waits for Juliet to react, push her away or shake her off; when none of that happens, she opens her mouth, licks the younger woman’s lips until they part and let a playful tongue in. The kiss is slow, intense: it lacks Shawn’s voracity, but makes up for it with Marlowe’s thorough exploration of the inside of her mouth, the weak bite - more of a scratch - of her lower lip, the way those greenish eyes flutter open once they separate, gasping for air.

“So,” pants Juliet once she recovers enough, “I’m starting to think that you planned all of- _that_ just-”

To get _this_. She doesn’t get to finish the sentence, though; Marlowe’s hands grab the back of her head, her waist, and pull her closer, nibbling at her lips once more before moving on to her ear.

“I plead the Fifth.”

There’s not a lot more talking after that. Not aside from encouraging grunts, a giggle here and there, moans that Juliet is at times ashamed to say have come from her own throat. Marlowe’s careful, curious: she undresses her slowly, stopping to lick her skin, taste every inch of her she can reach before she gets to her nipples. She spends a long time there, pinching, nibbling, blowing on them until they’re both swollen, until Juliet’s biting her lips and grabbing the older woman’s hair and cursing the fact that they’re on a couch and not her bed.

Juliet’s seen other women, pregnant women, naked before; still, the sight makes her stop, take her time to admire the perfect roundness of Marlowe’s belly, her full breasts, quivering when her breath quickens. She lets herself take in all of it, wondering if all these years her brothers and boyfriends have been onto something. 

An encouraging smile, a nod, and Jules finds herself easing Marlowe back on the couch, pushing her against the mess of cushions and blankets as carefully as she can. She kisses the older woman’s neck, goes downwards in a perfect imitation of the trail Marlowe’s lips have left on her own body. 

Once she reaches the breasts, though, she feels a hand on her head, fingers tangling up in her hair and guiding her softly, confidently. Her tongue flickers in and out, laps at the nipples before Marlowe pushes her lower, down to her belly, to her tights, and she knows just what to do. Parting the older woman’s legs - one of them awkwardly bent against the couch’s back -, Juliet lets her fingers tease, rub before her mouth takes their place, licking her clit swiftly, teasingly, feeling Marlowe lift her hips, let out a small, pleading moan.

She feels herself smile as she sets to work, single-mindedly focusing both her tongue and fingers, her palm, letting Marlowe’s throaty noises guide her while the older woman’s grip on her hair tightens. 

She comes with a loud groan, almost a howl. Juliet’s face is wet when she finally raises her head, lips glistening with spit and come and a smile that’s both proud and ecstatic on them. Not bad for a rookie, she wants to say, but before she can speak Marlowe’s pulling her towards her own mouth, kissing her roughly this time, her swollen belly pushing against Juliet’s body.

“That was- something,” she hears her say afterwards. When she opens her eyes, there’s a hungry look on Marlowe’s; Juliet’s whole body trembles when the older woman sits back up, pushing her until she’s the one who’s lying, wet and trembling with need. “You know, we still have some time to kill.”

***

They’re both sweaty, flustered and needy by the time Shawn even remembers Juliet’s message. Hit by sudden inspiration, he stops nibbling at Carlton’s nipples, gets his hands off him. He’s proud of himself: so far, he hasn’t even _touched_ the other man’s cock, aside from very light - almost accidental - grazes every now and again. It’s paying off: Lassie’s panting, whining and rolling his hips upwards in a move Shawn’s sure he’s gonna be thinking about for the rest of his life.

Still, the detective is nothing if not stubborn: he hasn’t yet buckled, hasn’t even _asked_ him once to touch him, take him in his mouth or jerk him off, whatever strikes his fancy. And that is definitely something Shawn intends to change right about now.

His own throbbing erection protests a little bit when he gets away, breath ragged and every inch of his skin almost burning. There’s disappointment in Lassie’s eyes, his expression betraying him more than he’d ever suspect, and Shawn’s hand trails back to him, traces the older man’s jawline without any input from his brain in what is _surely_ not an affectionate gesture.

None of this, he reminds himself in the midst of the lusty haze that’s set camp in his brain, is about affection. It wouldn’t make any sense.

“Giving up already, Spencer?” 

Lassie’s voice is rough, a growl that he forces out once Shawn breaks contact and gets off the bed. The psychic makes sure to take a good look at him from his new vantage point: hands still cuffed to the bedposts, mouth half open and chest heaving, he looks like something straight out of one of Shawn’s very, very dirty fantasies. For a second the younger man feels his mouth go dry, words stumbling over one another in an attempt to get out; he stops them with a smirk, lets his right hand wander idly until it finds his own naked erection. He strokes himself very slowly, smile firmly in place, watching as his tied-up Lassie squirms, wide-eyed and probably cursing him inwardly for not letting him in on the fun. It actually takes him a moment to remember why he’s got out of the bed in the first place; once he does, though, the prospect of new and exciting discoveries is enough to make him stop and take a step back.

“You know, Lassiekins, I’ve been enjoying Marlowe’s gift quite a lot.” The older man seems about to protest; he doesn’t give him the chance. “But I think Jules has also left something for me. And, as you said, they went through _a lot_ of trouble, huh?”

He should probably congratulate himself: it’s the longest speech he’s been able to make ever since he stepped into that room. 

He gets on his knees as quickly as he can, hearing Lassie’s protests - couldn’t you look for whatever it is _later_? - and promptly ignoring them in his search. If he’s right, and he’s probably right, Jules is even more twisted than he thought. Good for her.

He finds the box in a moment, but he takes his time to get it out, making sure to show it off when he stands up before turning around to open it.

“Really? What’s that supposed to be?” When Shawn doesn’t answer, the older man tries again, mustering all the indifference he can, which isn’t much at all. “Spencer? Are you even-?”

There it is. Inside the prettily wrapped box, sitting innocently, looking much larger and brighter and interesting than it has back at home. Licking his lips, Shawn turns back to the bed once more, holding the _Thing_ in his hand and arching a brow.

“I’m pretty sure you’re gonna like this, Lass.”

***

They look at one another one last time, a deep blush creeping on Juliet’s face. She’s mostly freshened up, hair tied up in a messy ponytail and a quick, shared shower having taken care of everything else. Marlowe smiles at her before focusing once again on straightening out her clothes, making herself at least presentable.

“How do I look?” she asks. Jules shrugs, mentally slapping herself for the way her eyes get stuck far too long on the older woman’s neckline. 

“Good enough, I guess.” Marlowe lets out a good-natured laugh.

“Not what I was hoping for, but fine.” She’s in a good mood; part of Juliet feels kind of proud at being the source of most of it. 

Surprising herself, the detective leans in to plant a quick peck on the other woman’s lips. From the way Marlowe’s eyes widen, she wasn’t expecting that; not that it’s an unwelcome gesture, apparently, for it is almost immediately followed by another, deeper kiss that ends with both of them panting.

“We should really go. It’s getting late.”

They’re already late, actually. Not that their slight delay hasn’t been worth it, but still: they’d better get going if they plan on actually getting to the Lassiters’ in time for lunch. She honestly doubts that sex - even sex with Carlton - is going to be enough to keep Shawn’s mind from thinking about food. And, to be fair, she also is kind of hungry.

Marlowe fiddles with the radio dials once she gets in the car, not really looking at her until they’re halfway to her house.

“So, did you- have fun?,” she finally asks. Which is stupid, really. Juliet is quite vocal, and has no qualms about _showing_ whether she likes something. Still, she nods, biting her lips thoughtfully before answering.

“It was my first time. You know.”

“With a woman.” The detective feels herself blush once again. Of course, Marlowe _could tell_. She’s probably been obvious. And clumsy, and- “Me, too.”

“Oh.”

That actually makes her feel better. She even puffs her chest a bit, which is a very silly thing to do, and draws a small, almost cocky smirk. Marlowe seems to like it: her hand reaches for Juliet’s shoulder, and she squeezes it in a way that’s both affectionate and conspiratorial. It is also a sort of promise, thinks the young woman. Of what, she’s not sure; but she’s dying to find out.

Maybe this whole thing hasn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

***

Truth be told, the morning has turned out better than expected. Some might even say, it’s turned to be a _great_ morning, if Lassie’s exhausted almost smile is to be believed. For a man handcuffed to his own bed, he’s not doing half-bad, mostly thanks to Shawn.

Things have almost come to an end when the psychic hears the door open. He’s way too invested in his current activity to do anything about it, though, so he keeps pounding into the moaning detective, mouth hungrily kissing Lassie’s, drinking up each and every little noise he’s making, storing the smells and the sounds and _the views_ just in case he doesn’t get to experience them again.

After all, they’re all bound to come back to their senses at some point, right?

“Woah. Seems like your time-tracking capacities are somewhat lacking, Shawn.”

That stops him. Not Lassiter, though; legs around his waist, he grunts when the psychic breaks the kiss, actually _pleading_ with him not to stop.

“Shawn.”

That, the moment he calls him by his given name, should be recorded and kept somewhere so that everybody can see it, point at it and go ‘yep, that was the moment detective Lassiter lost it.’ Though, bearing in mind the tone his name’s spoken in, maybe it’s best nobody else gets to hear it.

Nobody but the man’s wife, of course.

“Eh, Marlowe!” Shawn does his best to sound natural: it still comes out queasy, an out of breath groan more than anything.

“Don’t mind me. Just leaving the keys around here. We’re gonna order in. Want anything special?”

The psychic’s mind often gets a bad rap, with mostly Henry Spencer being absolutely convinced that there’s nothing in there but a cymbal-playing monkey and a bunch of random 80s references. Right now, however, it’d be a completely justified belief: the younger man’s brain seems to be frozen, leaving him unable to speak or move or do anything other than _not turn back_.

That is, until Carlton’s body jerks, legs pulling him closer, and the detective growls in his ear.

“That all you got, Spencer?”

And of course it isn’t. Shawn does his best not to dwell on the fact they’ve been caught in the act by a disturbingly unaffected Marlowe; it becomes increasingly easier once they settle back into their previous rhythm.

***

It takes the guys some time to get out of the bedroom, clothes rumpled - which is really not that big of a change when they’re talking about Shawn - and a sudden inability to meet their eyes.

Carlton’s actually the first to speak, still rubbing his wrists. He even raises his head, looking not at Marlowe, but at Juliet. 

“What did you get?”

She feels herself blush madly before her brain clicks, realizes he’s talking about food, and catches up with her mouth. 

“Uh, Mexican. Shawn told me he wanted to try out this new place. Turns out they’ve got delivery.”

It’s mundane, ordinary. It would be comfortable, too, were it not for the fact that she can’t help but picture both men naked, sweaty, doing- 

Clearing his throat, Shawn nods. Juliet inwardly thanks him for interrupting her thoughts. She hasn’t got to actually see them, but her imagination is nothing if not efficient, filling the blanks quite nicely on its own. And, of course, Marlowe’s reaction - her mischievous smile, her refusal to talk combined with a sudden need to kiss Juliet again - hasn’t really helped at all.

They don’t talk much for a while, waiting for their food among a strained silence and a series of averted gazes. It is one of the Lassiters again who breaks the spell - Marlowe this time, which is fitting, given that it was all her idea in the first place. She’s just come back from the front door, bags full of food in her hands, when she just states rather off-handedly how this whole thing has left her absolutely ravenous.

“ _This_ is making _you_ hungry?” Shawn’s incredulity only lasts for a second, immediately turning into suspicion when his eyes get trained on Juliet. “What exactly have you two-?”

“Can’t you _divine_ that, Spencer?” Lassiter’s in full-on sarcastic mode, but in a good way. That, along with the psychic’s indignant answer, finally seems to do it. Juliet lets out a breath she hadn’t known she’s been holding.

***

Things get easier after they’ve had lunch. That new Mexican place _really_ is all that; though he has to admit - even if just to himself - that it may not have been the best part of his day so far. And, by the dirty, dirty way in which Marlowe is looking at her husband, maybe things will get even better pretty soon.

Fact: they’re not getting around to painting that room today.

All in all, Shawn’s starting to feel pretty good about this whole thing, even though his mind keeps screaming at random times that he most assuredly should _not_. Having Jules sit next to him, an insecure bundle of nerves, does help a bit.

“So,” she says at last. She does so quietly; a pointed look at Marlowe makes the older woman stand up, force her husband to help her clean everything up out in the kitchen. Silently, Shawn wonders how much of that wordless communication has been going on between the two women, and if he should be worried about it. Maybe Jules is developing some kind of telepathy.

Or maybe, says the more rational part of his brain, she’s spending way too much time with Marlowe.

“So, Shawn, I-”

That should be the moment when, were Shawn anyone else, the screaming would start. Henry Spencer, Hawaiian-shirt aficionado, for example, would surely berate her, or at least make sure she understood none of this has been okay. Of course, Henry Spencer would’ve probably passed up the chance to fuck the SBPD’s Head Detective.

Or, at least, that’s the only option Shawn’s mind is willing to contemplate.

True to his deeply-ingrained need to do whatever his dad would expressly forbid him to, then, Shawn shrugs and lets a mostly-not-freaked-out smile form on his lips.

“Did you really, you know, do the horizontal hula with Marlowe?,” he asks, in what he sincerely hopes is an adequately lewd tone of voice. For emphasis, he raises both his eyebrows and prepares his right hand for a high-five that Jules ignores.

“Shawn!”

“Hey, wasn’t _my_ idea. You know, couples usually discuss the whole swinger thing before actually-”

“Look, I’m- sorry. I guess I got carried away, and I-” She sounds genuinely worried, but trails off without finishing that sentence. She probably expects an answer from him, one that will either confirm that this has all been a mistake - man, she can surely see under Shawn’s act by now - or make her relax. 

Ever the caring boyfriend, Shawn kisses her instead, long and wet and most assuredly not mentally comparing her lips to Lassie’s. 

(Though, to be fair, she’s probably comparing his to Marlowe’s. It’s not the first time Jules has complained about the stubble.)

“Honestly? It was surprising. And _good_.”

All of it, he thinks. Mostly the parts she didn’t get to see, and the ones she may get to see at some point. With a lopsided smirk, he kisses her again, loudly this time. They’ve just broken the kiss when their hosts get into the room again. 

“Alright.” Shawn stands up to indolently face the Lassiters. Marlowe mirrors his smirk worryingly fast. “Anyone up for desert?”

From the look on the others’ faces, it is probably the best idea he’s had in a while.

Man, he can’t wait to tell Gus _everything_.


End file.
